And We Traveled With Grand Deceit
by TheSmokingMan
Summary: I find the lack of Ivan / Justin works disturbing. Here's some drabbles I've written. I've fixed the text in the chapters. Enjoy without trouble.
1. Scope

Gratuitous intimidation factors weren't exactly valorous or notable when, persay, the general public were to talk about Hammer. Yet for a personal closure, his internal ignorance takes a great pride in labelling himself with such discrepancies and false accusations of bravery. It was not that he was a coward, a great portion of him lacked intrepidity. Hammer expressed his tenacity in different ways. His prowess often being that of word of mouth and state of mind, rather than brawn. Clout was not his forte in the least.

Alabaster walls surrounded this sort of sanctum and solid steel walls of establishment and great fortune. A lair.  
These...These "drones", couldn't even begin to match whatever 'Mona Lisa' Stark put together. To Hammer it all seemed unsound. Incapable. Losing faith in Ivan was not part of Hammer exploits, and his small trees of paranoia began to filter him with what if, what if, what if. The ample quiet flooding the space between the walls that towered within the organs of the building.

"Bullet."

The fragile, yet durable mechanism of wires and metal plates and connections to all for what it represented that Hammer held in his hands his the ground with a loud, ringing clatter. His chest felt as if someone reached inside and shook his lungs. The weakling and recreant within his person calmed itself momentarily, his ears in a slight discomfort from the clatter of the metal and copper wire fixture that escaped his hands.

"...what?" Hammer's response was simply a small shadow of the larger man's.

Ivan's voice rang like thunder in the massive vastness, temporarily ceasing his in-depth tinkering. Hammer's tension to rose from the constant intimidation factor. He could feel his ears flush.

"Bullet. Cannot manage drone without bullet."

Oh, well, duh, Hammer thought. How ironic a weapons facility such as this, yet Hammer's final thoughts were ammunition. "...Oh, of course. Can't have a car without gas, right?" Hammer's shady, dry chuckle sounding out within the air space, followed by nothing. The lack of acknowledgement left Hammer to question his entire project. His entire predicament. Surely, he trusted Ivan with this assignment. Yet to ponder and pander about this facility with constant monitoring was dubious concerning Hammer's plight. His ears began to ring, his troubled feet hurrying off in address. 


	2. Denial Hotline

- ring ! ring ! -

It leapt from every day, to every to every couple of hours, to every half hour. It could have been paranoia, it could have been sheer anticipation.  
But for what, really?  
Often times Justin had to guess if there had been an answer at all. He'd know after ringing stopped, or hear shuffling of wires or whatever else. He hated that most of all, feeling he was being toyed with, made to look like a fool. Often times neither of them said anything at all.  
Justin was always the first to speak, or, let alone say anything. That was the most frustrating to him. He'd call him drunk, at three AM; tired, angry, bored, depressed (for whatever reason).  
In the end, Justin was worry free of becoming a burden during his constant need to cal and address.  
Because he always answered. 


	3. Monologue 2

It sort of turns into a ritual, after a while. I can't think of any other way to describe it. it's just a long process of delivery and succumbing to thirst and desire. Swapping spit with the abherent lips and moisture traveling from place to place.  
Don't ask me how this got started, I didn't really want it to happen, so I apparently keep trying to tell myself. Contact with hands and bodies, pressing hard against cement, against metal, against porcelain, against linoleum; ammonia, gasoline and musk filling our nostrils. Heavy breathing and the sighs with carbon dioxide escaping with all of our little breaths.  
It's always a ritual. No matter what, sex is just something that 'just happens' anymore. There's never any personal triumph, or meaning; just a couple of people's hormones jumping into what we were apparently put on this planet to do. That's what I just kept telling myself the first few times that we decided to just go and run with it.  
To know what he thinks would be like a blind baby trying to read Greek in braille. He never speaks half of the time, and, if he does, it's in Russian for God's sake. He's leading me down this road of insecurities and confusion and 'what if?''s. Maybe it's his way of communication. I'd rather not think about it. Something tells me I won't like what I hear in the end. I'm gonna milk this for what it's worth.  
These intimacies keep my sanity in tact, often. I don't have anything to worry about, considering he seems okay with fucking my brains out a couple times a week. I feel a sense of worth, with it, and, (if I'm lucky, that is,) maybe to him it's more than just a lay while he's in captivity here. He looks like he's been to prison a few times, maybe he just knows what he's doing. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe it's something more.

Fat chance.

This ritual is one for the masses. Starts with a little foreplay, the big show, the main attraction, what have you, and the big finish, the cou de gras. If I'm lucky he sticks around for a while afterward, or just gets the hell out of dodge. But I don't want to make it a red flag that it actually matters to me. To be honest, I don't think he could care less. So that debauch happens, skin against skin, calloused and well worn hands ripping my clothes off with ease, in a closet, a back room I don't remember existing, or on a toolbox for Christ's sake. Not that I'm complaining or anything, I just want his cock in my ass and mouth.

Back to explaining.

I think he forgets he's pulling and yanking at my hair, sometimes. It turns into a shouting match, then all kinds of physical all over again. I remember him telling me that I like to use my mouth, considering I run it so much, but he's the same with his Goddamn hands. Aggressive bastard. He just starts prodding and fumbling and clawing inside my ass like a kid digging around in a cereal box for a prize. I just live with it, though. Slamming my sweaty, naked body against cold plaster walls in repeated thrusts like a Goddamn piston, never uttering anything outside of a grunt or two. Half the time I feel like a jackass, screaming and moaning his name, bent over a table with a Russian pounding over and over into me. My glasses skid across the floor while I'm kicking and thrashing around with his dick down my throat.  
Wet slapping noises are the soundtrack of Hammer Industries. My whimpers and cries are the choir, and spilled tools and clattering metal is the percussion. But I envelop every second of it. It sort of looks like love, if you squint. 


	4. Breathe

It wasn't Justin's depth perception losing it's quality or anything, but for as long as he had been watching, observing, admiring, and monitoring Ivan, the small yet tenacious man could swear he was practically withering away. Not that he'd like to admit he cared, or anything, it was just an observation of sorts - but, that's just Justin's side of the story.  
"Hey," his keen and always recognizable voice rang out as if he were some sort of 'real' authority figure. He approached the ever working man without fear.  
"Y'know, I don't think I've ever seen you eat anything." he said, pausing. Ivan appeared as if though he didn't notice Justin at all, and preferred it that way. Acknowledging the small tyrant gave him grounds to continue his tirade - the last thing Ivan wanted.  
Justin's words became sheepish and small, compared to anything else about him, finding the lack of acknowledgment unnerving. Yet he couldn't be surprised. He chuckled absently.  
"… you can just ask for anything, and I've gotcha covered, pal." he smiled with a visade of pride and blindness, becoming increasingly uncomfortable.  
Ivan said nothing, no pause in his activity. This was usually Justin's cue to leave.  
"That's fine - just - keep doin' what you're doin'." Justin chuckled dryly as he trailed off, making his way to the heavy doors of the workplace steadily. His throat tightened from apprehension and confusion. These moments between them were unpredictable, and over time, Justin had learned to just flat out quit trying at his attempts to be noticed. He was sick of the constant abandonment.  
Unfortunately for him, these feats had become more frequent, as of late. It discerned Justin, but he wasn't about to stop trying to work things out between them.

He needed some comfort food. Starch. Yeah. The man tried a smile, his personal stride regaining its valor.

—  
Within the time frame of three hours, Justin had gotten himself the most expensive Italian whatever that he could find in a half hour time span. He would treat himself, despite his vanity preceding that often, but within this time, these three hours he found himself eating alone, his gut pressed on the throttle. These three hours he found himself eating alone, he'd considerately set aside a plate for another, setting whatever had been left onto it neatly, venturing back to his place of enterprise. Justin's careful hands quietly and carefully abandoned the conditioned plate inside the vast white of the laboratory on any nearby surface of notable value, practically silent in a rare event, before abandoning the facility entirely for the evening. Whatever had crawled into Justin's mind within those moments had been buried alive as he attempted to banish the consideration into nothing, denial setting in once again.

'You've done your good deed, Justin, be proud.' he thought. He'd retire, tonight, pleased with himself.  
Once dawn had traveled upon him, he traveled to the lab in confidence, apprehension growing as it often did. His small, shined feet shuffled along the floor at a quickened pace, to find the sound of leather and linoleum interrupted by leather and garlic sauce, the plate outside the heavy metal doors untouched.


	5. Everything Else Was Secondary

justin was the type to worry, despite his exhuberance. obsess, for lack of a better word. he liked to have control of a situation. just so he knew what was going on.

just to be aware.

make sure nothing gets screwed up. yet he claims to have the least amount of worry. that's what he'd like to think, anyway.  
the worry begins to set in.

it isn't like he can be..direct about these things. unfortunately his pride and arrogance repel any sort of inner closure within his person, and is caught within the deep clasp of the cavernous well of denial.  
the meetings seemed longer. the interviews started to loop. repeat themselves. and infinity seemed to become a sentient.  
he wondered how much it would cost him if he burned the building down. to escape. to just run with it. something different from the daily grind.  
he began to become enraged and enveloped with emotion. these little intimacies and feelings of one-sidedness, resembling the small dry patch of sidewalk unaffected by the rain. the rain covered everything but him. he was just second place.


	6. Monologue

Foolish, they call me. Yet, there is no better word to describe this shell of mine.  
He calls me foolish, within the depths and secrets of his foreign tongue, despising me.  
This small cup of rain that I am, will dry up with the coming months, for ther are no other forecasts to weigh me down and consume those dry patches of mine that desire so much.  
Yet when I am withholding nothing, the ultimate isolation can only dry me further.


	7. On The 808's

"Я вырву твое сердце, ты знаешь."  
That heavy rasp echoed once again, Justin's peripherals sounding an alert. He winced, feeling a slight squeeze at his throat, fabric entrapping him.  
"Too tight-" his small words escaped like oil. The larger individual finding his fault at the little task, fixing his mistake immediately.  
You'd think a 'genius' like Justin Hammer would know how to tie a tie.  
He felt the silk fabric pressing against him gently, moved and shuffled as it was assembled. The silence burned between them.  
"I don't speak Russian." the smaller man trailed off. "It must not have been that important, then, I'm guessing."  
Justin smiled, without worry.

*"I'll break your heart, you know."


	8. Laughter

The years of youth prove fruitful with ambition and pursuit of greater triumphs. Our mothers and fathers are grand figures of influence and impressionism whenst referring to the curiosity and questionability of children, especially with dreams of future aspirations.  
Justin's mother always told him to laugh in the faces of the things that could ever possibly prevent his goals from becoming slipping from his fingers.  
Laughter is the best medicine.  
When times are tough, laugh it up.  
These little and almost meaningless metaphors stuck with Justin like honey on bees for his entire life. In the midsts of silence, a dry chuckle. His face in a perpetual smirk.  
The days he felt he had it worst, despite it being ironically so, he would sit alone often times and laugh.  
Ivan didn't quite understand these perplexities. he figured it best not to ask. Justin talked enough as it was.  
All the times Justin told Ivan he couldn't have these feelings for him, despite the fact he always ran back to him, he would laugh. A nervous snicker, hiding whatever remorse and misfortune Justin had grasped and embraced with open arms and trembling fingers. Yet he would always wander back when Ivan questioned his motives of abherent personal isolation. Justin would always just laugh the blissful ignorance off of his shoulders.  
Ivan never understood, but he would laugh, too.


	9. Collapse

Oh but what confusion persisted with his question.

"What are you gonna do when this is over?"

The mammoth of a man laughed at the smaller figure, whose face had immediately contorted into one of anger and confusion.

"I was serious."

Quiet, now; the feeble man only hearing soldier and iron.

"I know you were.


End file.
